


The Poison of Medea

by ChelsaOfBakerStreet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Challenge fic, M/M, Pre-Relationship, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:25:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChelsaOfBakerStreet/pseuds/ChelsaOfBakerStreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mycroft needs help on a case in Greece, Sherlock and John find a lot more than they bargained for. Written for the August fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic challenge!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Poison of Medea

**Author's Note:**

> So, before anyone tells me anything science-y, I made up everything to do with the chemical makeup of the flower and the caffeine and sucralose. I wrote this in a very short span and did not have the time to research. Also, the Mythology is correct.

Sherlock stretched across the couch, staring up at the ceiling as Mycroft droned on about the poisoning of some Russian government official or the other, waving a thick manila folder in his hand. “Sherlock, I know you do not have a case, this at least will be interesting, and the poison has yet to be identified.”

“Boring,” droned Sherlock from the couch, eyes half-glazed.

“Come on Sherlock, I need to get out of the bloody flat. I’ve not been called in for the past three days.” John was trying to reason with Sherlock, the amount of time he had been spending at Baker Street had grown exponentially since Sarah dumped him and John was itching to do something, anything.

Sherlock glanced over at John, a peculiar look on his face. “I brought home some evidence from the yard. I thought you would appreciate the trouble I went through to get it. Little things seem to matter a lot to them. It wasn’t like they were going to solve the case on their own.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. “Sherlock what have I told you about taking evidence? You’ve mucked up the entire case; it won’t be admissible in court.”

“It won’t need to be admissible if I can get a confession, which I will,” huffed Sherlock, his gaze boring into John.

“That is not the point here!” John was practically yelling, forgetting that Mycroft stood a few metres away. “You cannot just do whatever you want all the time. There are some rules that even you have to follow. I swear you are the most insufferable brat I have ever met.”

Sherlock glared at John, a flicker of hurt crossing his face. “You were the one who wanted a case and I got us one!”

Mycroft watched them bicker, wanting to roll his eyes at the absurdity of the situation. He noticed the contrast now more than ever. How Sherlock wanted to push the limits and John wanted to toe the line nicely. They were so blind to it, their feelings for one another and Mycroft wanted to hang a flashing neon sign in front of them that said something along the lines of ‘yes I in fact do have feelings for my flatmate’ and let them figure out where to go from there. Alas, today was not that day (plus he had a slight shortage of neon at the moment) so he decided to interrupt their domestic before it got violent. “John, Sherlock, if you two are done arguing like a married couple then I would appreciate you looking over the case for me. It involves a bit of a work holiday which will get you both out of the flat which is obviously what you need.”

The colouring of John’s cheeks and the impatient, embarrassed huff from Sherlock proved Mycroft’s point even further that the two of them were hopelessly pining over one another, but that was a problem for another day.

“Where are you sending us? Not to Russia I hope,” Sherlock pouted.

Mycroft exhaled slowly, gripping the handle of his umbrella tightly. “No, you need to be sent to Greece. I had the chance to look at the properties of the poison and believe it to be made from a very rare flower grown in the hills of Athens. I, of course, need you to double check this, but I believe I am correct in my assumptions.”

“Fine,” stated Sherlock sharply, looking between his brother and John. “I will accept this case, provided Lestrade doesn’t need anything from me.”

“I assure you he will not need you for the duration of the case.”

“You mean you won’t let him call Sherlock for the durations of the case,” quipped John who was contemplating the pros and cons of a work holiday in Greece with Sherlock.  On one hand, it would be nice to get away from the bleak greyness of London for a while, but on the other it meant an insufferable flight with an equally insufferable man, added on top to the insufferable crush he had on said man. John really needed a good shag and a holiday from Sherlock.

Mycroft’s gaze slid to John, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I will neither deny nor acknowledge the truth of this statement. I will, however, admit that I have told Gregory that you two will be out of the country for a bit. He did ask that you return his unusable evidence at your earliest convenience.”

“No I will not-“ Sherlock began, slumping down even further on the couch.

John cut in, looking at Sherlock sternly. “I will make sure Greg gets it back, even if I have to drag it from your brother’s cold, dead hands.”

Sherlock made a strangled noise before turning over on the chaise, pointedly ignoring both men in the room.

Mycroft handed the folder over to John, nodding in the direction of his younger brother. “The best of luck with him,” he sighed, turning to leave.

John watched as Mycroft left before pressing his face into his hand and dropping the file onto the table. “Can’t you just get along with Mycroft for one sodding minute? He brought you a case so that you do not have to nick evidence from the yard and you act like he’s the world’s largest annoyance to you.”

“He is,” Sherlock whinged, rolling over to look at John. “He does it so he can check up on me.”

“Yeah? Well he’s your brother, they tend to do that. I check up on Harry when I can.”

“She has substance abuse issues; you want to make sure she isn’t dead in a ditch somewhere.”

John closed his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose. “Yes, that’s one reason and you’re not one to talk. From what I recall, Mycroft has reasons to keep tabs on you as well.”

“He knows you wouldn’t let me near anything detrimental to my health.”

“Not the point, Sherlock,” John snapped, his tone coming off sharper than he’d meant. Half the time he hated how everyone seemed to think he was Sherlock’s sitter, but knowing more about the detective had made John try and be a bit more compassionate towards him.

That was the underlying problem with all of this; he had dropped the ‘com’ and had just become passionate about the sodding man. He should have walked away the moment he felt it start, the lingering glances, and the way his skin tingled slightly at the lightest touch of Sherlock’s hand. It was all bloody ridiculous. He had chalked it up to being dumped by Sarah, just wanting some sort of romantic interaction and being near Sherlock twenty four hours a day most of the time. His hours at Bart’s had diminished, most likely because of his running off with Sherlock whenever he was needed. For now, and hopefully the rest of his life, he would ignore whatever it was that was getting Sherlock under his skin.

\---------------------

_Come to the lab. It’s urgent. – SH_

John stared at the text, sighing as he folded the paper he’d been reading and sat it on the coffee table. Sherlock had run off without a word and left John to his own devices. John wasn’t complaining really about the lack of insanity and chaos in the flat, instead he’d made a cup of tea and settled in with the paper and the telly going in the background.

He gathered his coat and locked the door behind him before stepping off the landing and heading down the stairs. He wondered, briefly, when he would stop dropping everything to do something for Sherlock that most likely involved him getting Sherlock’s mobile from his jacket pocket (and now didn’t that send John’s mind on a completely different path?) which Sherlock was bloody well capable of doing himself.

He had almost changed his mind twice about going at all when he received another text from Sherlock whilst standing on the kerb. _It’s important, I need your opinion. – SH_

John almost dropped his mobile in surprise, all while almost being run into by the cab he had just hailed. He made it safely into the car before glancing at the screen again. Oh yes, he was going to forward, email, and print this to show to everyone he knew that the great Sherlock Holmes needed a second opinion on something. Today was a good day.

John arrived at Bart’s ten minutes later and made his way to the lab where he knew Sherlock would be, most likely being followed around by Molly. John honestly thought he should just up and tell Molly that her infatuation with Sherlock was unneeded, that the man had no romantic interests in anyone before realising that his dislike for her hanging around was more jealousy than anything. Maybe Molly and her antics would help John get over this not a bit good of a crush he had on Sherlock.

“Good you’re here. Look at this and tell me what you think,” barked Sherlock as soon as John had walked through the door.

John meandered over to where Sherlock was hunched over a book, a few autopsy photos, and a microscope, glancing at the photo Sherlock was pointing to. He looked at the colouring around the eye, mouth, and nose. “It seems to be an inhalant at first, but the colouring around the eyes suggests that the poison entered through those as well. Do we have any pictures of the ears?”

Sherlock shuffled through the photos. “I agree with you, but the autopsy report shows that the poison was swallowed as well.” Sherlock found the picture John needed along with handing him the autopsy report.

John pointed out the colouring around the ears, a light powder blue tinging the lobe and shell lightly. He scanned the report, looking for anything that stuck out. “They seem to think the poison was taken orally, the colouring being a side effect. I think he was drowned in whatever held the poison.”

“Precisely!” Sherlock exclaimed, looking at John with glee. “He was _drowned_ in whatever holds this poison, and according to this, it works so incredibly fast that he may have died before he even knew what was happening.” It was moments like these that made Sherlock’s heart, yes he did have one thank you very much, swell with pride. For ever criticism he gave John verbally, he praised him silently. Sherlock had grown fond of John, fonder than he really should have, but that was alright, Sherlock could manage to keep that in check as long as he avoided long exposure to John.

Which of course, was why in retrospect, this had been an awful idea. Molly, who was usually hanging off Sherlock like an extra limb was nowhere to be seen and the silence of the room only intensified the sounds of John’s breathing and heartbeat near him. This was ridiculous, no consulting detective ended up falling in love with their handsome, kindly, smart, witty, charming- ahem, flatmate. Sherlock had been doing that a lot more recently, the whole listing John’s good characteristics thing and it was becoming a problem.

Sherlock shook his head and resumed his peering through the microscope as he awaited the test results from the compounds of the poison. He could feel John move closer, no doubt expecting Sherlock to let him have his look at the slide but suddenly Sherlock found himself glued to the spot. He dared a glance out of the corner of his eye to see John standing approximately a meter away from him. If he angled himself correctly and moved at a precise speed he could kiss John, surprising him before John had a chance to understand what was going on and bloody hell what did John just say? “Hmm?”

“I asked if you were all right. You froze like you had seen someone pulling your violin apart piece by piece.” John had crossed his arms and was looking at Sherlock expectantly. Oh right, he needed to answer the question.

“I was merely assessing the necessary angle and velocity to, erm, force someone into a pool,” Sherlock covered, his mind whirring.

John uncrossed his arms and moved closer, close enough that Sherlock was suddenly worried John might hear the frightening staccato of his heart against his ribcage. “Right, and what is it?” asked John expectantly.

“I do not know.”

John blinked, suddenly at a loss for words, at least any that were comprehendible. “You, what?”

“I would have to know the height of the perpetrator, which I do not. There are more variables to the equation that I must have before I can reach a definitive answer.”

John stayed silent, merely nodding along with Sherlock’s words. “So are you going to ask me to look at the microscope or are my skills not good enough for the great Sherlock Holmes?”

“I do not think your skills are lacking,” retorted Sherlock quite off-the-cuff, leaving John speechless for a second time. Sherlock waved a hand, keeping John from speaking even if he’d been able to. “Not that I do not think you’re up to my level, but you’re better than ninety percent of the people I deal with.”

“Thanks, I think,” answered John, hugging his arms around his body lest Sherlock find something else to compliment him on and honestly, John didn’t think he could handle that today.

The compound analyser dinged to let Sherlock know that the results were through and he spun around, thankful for having something to do instead of engaging in what he like to call ‘awkward, possibly sexually tense, silent pauses with my flatmate’ which seemed to have increased over the past few months.

He scanned the report, grinning. “Chlorine, limestone, ash, and Aconitum napellus. Just as we expected.”

“And there you go again thinking I know what the bloody hell you’re on about,” John growled from the corner he was standing in, shaking his head.

“Drowning? Remember that? Chlorine is used in swimming pool water. Limestone and ash are components of concrete which is used to build swimming pools. Finally we have Aconitum napellus, or Aconite, found in the rocky hills of Athens.”

“They poisoned the Russian official by pushing him into a pool filled with flowers?”

“No John,” Sherlock began, levelling a look at John. “They put the flower nectar in the pool water and then pushed the Russian official in.”

“How did they keep from other people getting into it while it was poisoned?”

“That John, is a brilliant question.” Sherlock was smiling as he grabbed up the papers scattered around on the lab table. “Text Mycroft and tell him we will need the jet and a report of all the newly hired pool boys within a fifty mile radius of Athens.”

“How did you know it happened in Athens?”

“Mythology. There was a story that Theseus once travelled to Athens to present himself to his long lost father King Aegeas. The king's wife Medea, recognised the youth, and persuaded Aegeas to let her offer him a cup of wine laced with deadly aconite. However, just in time, Aegeas caught sight of the sword which he had given Theseus to be a mark of his paternity, and knocked the deadly cup from his hands. The Grecians also referred to the plant as wolfs bane because they would lace their wolf-hunting arrows with it.”

“You do Mythology but not Astronomy?” John’s lips curled into a smile that he tried to hide behind his hand.

“That isn’t the point. Have you texted Mycroft? We need to get back to the flat to pack; I fear the Russian Prime Minister may be the real target here.”

John followed behind Sherlock, typing out the message as quickly as possible before running straight into Sherlock on the kerb. “Sherlock! What are you doing?”

“Get in the car,” Sherlock said in a hushed tone before disappearing into the back of the dark sedan waiting for them. John followed behind, sliding into the confines of the car.

“I take it that you have found which flower it was?” Mycroft asked from the shadows, moving closer so that Sherlock and John could see him. He pointed out the window before John could ask why he had picked them up off the kerb. “I have reason to believe we are being tailed so I made it my prerogative to get us all to safety. Anthea is at the airport with valises for all of us, security has been cleared, and my jet has been pulled around. We depart for Athens as soon as possible.”

John looked out the back window of the vehicle, indeed noticing the car following a few hundred metres behind them. “What do they want from us?”

“I assure you, that whatever it is John, it will not be taken with our ability to still walk away intact. I do hope that we will get there in time, which we will. Gregory has a squad car meeting us there and I highly doubt a trained assassin will try anything while we’re in the middle of Heathrow.”

“This is bigger than we thought it was then?” questioned John, sinking into the leather seat.

Mycroft stared out the window. “Much bigger, I’m afraid.”

\-----------------

John breathed a sigh of relief as the car pulled up outside Heathrow, a police car sitting in front of them. The three men hurried into the security of the airport, leaving any possibility of an attack outside on the pavement.

They met Anthea as they passed through security, Mycroft taking the passports from her hand and handed one each to John and Sherlock. The airport was quieter at the late evening hour of the day, most people milling around for the last few planes to leave.

Anthea bustled through the airport, Sherlock, Mycroft, and John following closely behind her as they made their way through the terminal and onto the tarmac before ascending into the cabin of the plane.

John gaped at the interior of the plane; soft leather seats, large screen TV in front, even wood panelling on the walls to make it seem more of an in-air office than an aeroplane. It was complete with a full bar, bed suite and a loo that had a bathtub in it. John had never seen such luxury in his life.

“Close your mouth John, you’re drooling,” Sherlock articulated, sitting in a chair and settled in for the ride.

John promptly closed his mouth and sat next to Sherlock, Mycroft taking the seat opposite them, facing across the table so that he sat backwards. “This is all the information regarding the Russian Head and his surrounding officers. Ninety percent of this information is classified, but I’m sure I do not need to tell you that.”

Sherlock flipped through the pages, absorbing pertinent details before passing them to John to read through. “Do you think it’s an inside job?”

“I’m not sure. There had been no whispers of usurping the government, no talks of terrorist attacks. I have no clue what is wanted from this and that is a dangerous position for me to be in.”

John nodded, understanding what Mycroft truly was asking of them. If they didn’t figure out what was happening, and quickly, then Mycroft’s position would be compromised. If the Russian Prime Minister died on his watch then Mycroft would lose everything he had worked to build. That was why Mycroft was precise in everything he did from the way he talked to the way he dressed. He had to be on top of everything, ready to go at a moment’s notice. It was why he was so short with Sherlock; he didn’t find unnecessary whinging and avoidance of rules to be the slightest bit productive.

\----------------------

Sherlock awoke from the short nap he had taken, wanting to be alert and ready to move as soon as they hit Grecian soil, and found that John had fallen asleep on his shoulder. Sherlock was about to move and wake the man when John moved, nestling his head more comfortably on Sherlock’s chest, his hand grabbing onto Sherlock’s forearm. Sherlock froze, his breathing even shuddering to a halt as the scent of John invaded his olfactory senses. If he moved carefully he could wrap an arm around John, pulling the man closer towards him. It was about the time that Sherlock was going to wrench his arm from between their bodies that he caught Mycroft’s eye. His brother was giving him a disapproving glare. “Really Sherlock?” Mycroft whispered, not wanting to wake John. “Of all the bloody people in the world it has to be him?”

Sherlock’s own stare at his brother grew in intensity, “I do not see how any of this would be anything to do with your opinion even if your assumptions are correct.” Sherlock answered harshly, his tones low.

“Oh I believe we both know I am quite correct. However, this is neither the time nor place for this discussion and I fully well expect you to keep your predilections for a certain ex-Army soldier in check.”

“You have nothing to worry about Mycroft,” Sherlock huffed, the movement of his chest waking John.

“Huh, was that?” asked John groggily, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He blinked twice, taking in his surroundings that looked very much like a pair of black trousers and a white button up. “Shit!” he exclaimed, sitting up from his current position of almost drooling on Sherlock. “Sorry Sherlock, I didn’t mean to.”

“Quite alright John, it has happened to the best of us,” answered Sherlock quietly, still glaring at Mycroft.

Mycroft leaned back in his seat, pressing the tips of his fingers together. “We will be landing shortly, best you woke up for the debriefing anyway.”

“Haven’t we already had the debriefing?” John asked, looking between the two of them.

“Almost, I believe Anthea has a bit of information she would like to share with us all.” Mycroft turned his attention to his assistant who was typing quickly at her mobile.

“The Aconite flower is only found in two different hillsides of Athens and it is forbidden to pick them. We can go to the patches to look for clues there; it has already been cleared with the Police. A detail has been placed on all of the higher men in the Russian hierarchy of government officials. Also, I have reason to believe that we will still be in danger once we touch down on Grecian soil.” She glanced up from her phone at the end of her speech, looking at the three men in turn. “Please be careful, I would rather not have to send any of you home in a body bag.”

\--------------------

Sherlock was pacing across the suite, hands pulling at his hair, agitated. “I do not want you to come with us John.”

“Why the bloody hell not Sherlock? I think I can handle myself.” John was angry that Sherlock was trying to keep him locked up in the hotel room instead of going with him to the first flower site.

Sherlock stopped his pacing and turned to look squarely at John. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Sherlock did you fall and knock your brain around during landing?” John was staring at him, wondering what on Earth Sherlock could possibly be thinking.

“I am thinking that I would much rather have you here, safe until all of this blows over.”

John felt uncomfortable under the intense fire burning in Sherlock’s eyes and suddenly he felt like there was something he was missing. “Sherlock, what do you know that I do not?”

Sherlock faltered for a moment, stilling. “I just do not like the idea of you getting hurt.”

John was touched by the notion, but he was still going to the bloody hillside. “I have saved your arse multiple times and although I appreciate the sentiment, I am going with you.”

“No, you are not.”

“Yes I am Sherlock.”

“No, I refuse to allow it.” Sherlock was making his way towards the door of the hotel room, trying to block John from reaching it first.

 _Oh no he is not_ , John thought to himself as Sherlock placed himself between the door and John. “You cannot stop me, I’m going to go whether you like it or not.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, hand clutched around the doorknob. “John Watson I am in love with you and I would not be able to stand to see you get hurt because of me.” With those words hanging in the air he twisted the door handle and left the room in a flurry of movement.

John stood there gawking at the door Sherlock had just moved through, unsure if perhaps he were dreaming. Had Sherlock really professed his love for John and used that as his reasoning for leaving John at the hotel? John needed to sit down. He made his way over to the chaise blindly, his legs trying to give out from underneath him. Sherlock, crazy, mental, brilliant Sherlock with whom John had never expected a chance with had just said the three most terrifying words to John. John was unsure what he had meant really, because being in love meant a lot of things that John had previously thought Sherlock was incapable, like compassion and well, things of a completely different sort that left John more than a little wanting of Sherlock to return so that they could figure this out.

As the shock began to wear off it was slowly being replaced by anger. So what if Sherlock was in love with John? John had been in love with Sherlock for a long while and that never stopped him letting the fool run off into multiple dangerous situations. Of course, John had to admit to himself that he spoke absolutely no Greek and trying to find a hill he wasn’t even allowed to be on in a country he had never travelled to might be a bit difficult.

Also, if Sherlock thought it was too dangerous, then perhaps he knew something he was not willing to divulge to John at the time. John was not stupid by any means, but he still lacked in comparison to Sherlock when observing and knowing critical information.

John resigned himself to a day of relaxing in the hotel suite. As soon as he had entered the bedroom he walked back out, thinking he must have been in Mycroft’s. Alas, John was even more disturbed to find he indeed had not upon meeting a single bed of an even smaller size than the one he had encountered in the first room. It was settled, this trip was going to be the death of him. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he and Sherlock had shared a bed _before_ Sherlock’s declaration of love which John was beginning to think may have been a hallucination. Now though, now John was going to have to deal with whatever this was when Sherlock got back, and then he still had to share a bed with the man.

Not that he minded terribly about that, it was just that now he would be lying there every second wondering what would be going too fast, too far for the self-proclaimed virgin. Would Sherlock want to have sex, to cuddle, to kiss, hell would he even want to hold hands? John suddenly felt as if he’d been forced underwater and he found himself struggling to regain his breathing. He knew absolutely nothing about how to have a relationship with Sherlock, even if he’d been yearning for it for a while.

\-----------------------

Sherlock was flouncing around the field as Mycroft watched from the far edge, his umbrella blocking out the heat of the sun bearing down on them. Sherlock almost had his nose stuck to the ground like a Pointer and Mycroft was worrying about the amount of pollen Sherlock was inhaling. “Have you found anything yet?”

Sherlock bolted up from where he had been crouched and cried ‘aha’ triumphantly. “This is most definitely where the assassin retrieved the flowers from. There are some trampled spots and recent diggings. She obviously knew of the flower’s poison, seeing as she wore waders that would easily wash off and dug out the plant instead of digging it up.”

“She? It was a female?” Mycroft called, not daring to step foot into the field Sherlock was prancing around in.

Sherlock bent low to the ground once again, as if inspecting something there. “Size thirty-eight shoe, approximately 170 centimetres tall, 50 kilograms.”

“Thank you. I’ll send the information over to my men at the lab. I expect you’ll want to obtain a sample for scientific purposes?”

“Of course,” Sherlock smirked, glad Mycroft had asked. “I’ll need a bag and a trowel.” Sherlock bounded over to where Anthea stood, holding the items he had just asked for before turning and looked for a healthy specimen.

\-------------------------

“What the bloody hell is that doing in our room Sherlock?” John screeched, pointing at the offending flower that was now sitting in a ceramic pot.

“Mycroft said I could have it. Purely for scientific purposes,” Sherlock responded, not looking up from the makeshift laboratory.

“I do not care what Mycroft says. You could have at least told me you were here. Jesus Christ Sherlock you just leave and disappear whenever the hell you want to! What if you had died?”

“Then you would be flatmate-less and exponentially more bored.” Sherlock looked up from the notebook he had been scribbling on, his mouth set in a firm line. “Why do I have a feeling that this outburst has less to do with the sodding flower on the table and more about something else?”

“Because it bloody well is. Was that some sort of way of shocking me into staying or did you mean it? You can't just say things like that and disappear for the rest of the day!” John was past the point of exasperation; having sat around the hotel all day doing absolutely nothing other than deconstructing Sherlock’s parting words.

Sherlock exhaled heavily before standing up from the chair he had been hovering over more than anything and made his way to where John stood. Sherlock grabbed John’s wrists. “I meant it John and that scares me. You know who I am and you know how I am and you know that I could end up hating it down the road which is why this has to be your choice.”

Sherlock was close enough to John to kiss, and that being John’s first though helped monumentally in his decision-making. “Bloody hell Sherlock, I want to try it, I’d hate myself if I let you go. I’ve felt things no platonic flatmate should.”

Sherlock smiled probably the most genuine smile of his existence and kissed John, a quick little swooping kiss and moved back towards where his findings sat on the table.

“Like hell you are,” John growled, pulling Sherlock towards him, kissing Sherlock soundly, and mashing their lips together roughly.

This time they were both breathing heavily as they pulled away, Sherlock’s head spinning as if he had just held his breath for a long time. His hands flew to John’s shoulders, pulling the shorter man to him right as his mobile began sounding. “Sodding Mycroft,” he complained as he pulled his mobile from his pocket. “Hello?”

“Sherlock, it’s Anthea. We have a problem.”

Sherlock froze, his eyes widening. If Anthea had Mycroft’s phone then he knew it couldn’t be good. “What’s wrong?”

“Mycroft’s been poisoned. They’ve found a way to make the Aconite poison move more slowly into the bloodstream. Can you make an antidote?”

Sherlock could hear the worry in Anthea’s voice which did nothing to help quell his fears. “I’ll do my best Anthea, how much time do I have?”

“Three hours maximum. I’ll have a car waiting for you.”

Sherlock clicked off the phone and tore away from John, his mind whirling as he tried to recall the properties of the Aconite poison. What made it cling to the blood molecules? That’s where he needed to start.

“Caffeine,” spoke John, startling Sherlock who in turn almost knocked over the Aconite plant.

“What are you blathering on about John?” snapped Sherlock, typing away at his laptop.

“Caffeine is what binds the poison to the red blood cells. I did some research while you were gone.” John puffed out his chest, proud that he had remembered something Sherlock had not. “What’s going on Sherlock? What’s put you in a right place to start talking to yourself?”

“Mycroft has been poisoned.”

“What?” exclaimed John, moving to where Sherlock stood. “I though the Russian Prime Minister was next?”

“As did I, but look, we both can be incorrect occasionally. Now, I need to find a way to unbind the caffeine from the cells and block the poison from seeping inside them.” Sherlock was pacing, his movements becoming almost erratic.

“First of all you need to calm down,” John said, laying a hand on Sherlock’s arm to attempt to comfort the man. “You’re the most brilliant person I know, you can do this.”

With John’s words soothing him somewhat, Sherlock began to go through his mental database before shouting excitedly. “Sucralose! It will unbind the caffeine and swell the cells so that they won’t drink in the poison. He’ll also need a saline flush. Come along, John.” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled him out the door and towards the lift.

\--------------------

Sherlock was drumming his fingers nervously on his leg as the sedan made its way to the hospital, a very pale Anthea meeting them at the A&E entrance. “How did you know?” he asked, following Anthea to Mycroft’s room where they had been given strict orders on how to counter the poison running rampant through Mycroft’s body.

“He called me from the luncheon he was at, said something about the wine. Something about it tasted not quite right. As soon as the words left his mouth I was phoning A&E and calling you.” Anthea stood to the side as they reached the room. John took Sherlock’s hand, knowing what seeing a relative, especially one you were close to (although the two of them would never admit it) hooked up to wires and oxygen.

Sherlock silently made his way to Mycroft’s bedside and took his hand. “Mycroft, if you can hear me, I’m going to find whoever did this to you, I swear it.”

“No need for that,” Anthea smiled wickedly. “It just so happens that the assassin was the woman he was dining with.”

“The Prime Minister’s daughter? I should have seen that,” Sherlock groaned, pressing a hand to his face. “She wanted Russia to bomb Britain; I always thought she had ties to the KGB. If it seemed like Mycroft failed to keep her father safe, then subsequent Russian allies could begin to usurp the British Government. She’s a ruthless woman.”

“Quite correct,” Anthea agreed angrily. “She was quite the sight with her long blonde hair and perfect nails dripping blood. She had the audacity to wink at me as she left the interrogations room, the bitch.”

Sherlock had never questioned Anthea’s loyalty to Mycroft, but it was moments like this one that showed how much she truly cared for the man she called her boss.

They were interrupted by the doctor coming out to talk to them. “His vital signs are improving; you saved his life Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock smiled, basking in the praise before turning and taking John’s hand. “If it hadn’t been for Dr Watson here, I may have been too late.”

The doctor nodded at them, explaining that he had more patients to attend to and promised he was leaving Mycroft in very capable hands.

\----------------

It was John’s shift to stay awake when Mycroft finally came to. He heard the rustling of the bed sheets before Mycroft blinked open his eyes. “Oh god please tell me this isn’t hell,” he groaned, turning his head to see Sherlock curled in the bed next to Mycroft’s.

“No, you’re still alive,” laughed John, holding a glass of water for Mycroft to sip from.

“My goodness this is quite the belittling experience,” Mycroft laughed, taking the straw John offered him.

“You can thank me later,” John whispered, trying to keep from waking Sherlock. “Can I ask though, how a trained assassin that you knew the basic profile of wormed her way into your luncheon?”

“She was invited. I was there to gain information from her. She must have had a person on the inside though; I never let my gaze leave her.”

“Was it worth it?” John asked quietly, staring at his hands.

Mycroft contemplated the question in its entirety. “Yes and no. I have a few leads to other groups in Europe, but I feel like shite if you will pardon the expression.”

John laughed at that, the way Mycroft was even proper in his hospital bedside manners. John glanced over top of Mycroft, staring at Sherlock and Mycroft was suddenly reminded of the aeroplane ride in. “He hasn’t said anything odd to you has he?” asked Mycroft, tilting his head towards where Sherlock lay.

“Other than pronouncing his love for me, no,” smiled John, enjoying the look of shock passing across Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft sighed, shifting in the bed. “He always did love to be dramatic. I take it that’s how he got you to stay in the room, instead of you complying easily like he told me.”

“Yeah,” John nodded. “He kind of shocked me into not moving for about a good twenty minutes.”

“He has that effect on people.”

“I do not,” Sherlock whinged, stretching in the bed.

Mycroft laughed dryly. “Well, although I must admit that I’m not the _happiest_ about it, I know you’ll take care of him and that’s what actually matters to me. The case has been solved, I am alive, and we can return to London tomorrow.”

“No,” stated Sherlock defiantly. “We’ve been here all of a day and a half and I want a holiday from London and I think John would like one as well.”

“If that was a euphemism for ‘I want to shag my new boyfriend in the room next to my brother’ then I would rather you tell me now so that I can purchase earplugs.”

“They’re in the bedroom drawer,” Anthea cut in stoically, her expression unwavering.

Mycroft grimaced. “Anthea, put that on my list of things never to ask my brother again.”

\--------------------

It was rather funny, the way that john and Sherlock made their way into the hotel room, buzzing from the high of solving a case. Of course, the electricity was buzzing with something extra, something totally different than ever before. John wasn’t necessarily sure what to expect, knowing absolutely nothing about how Sherlock would react to anything remotely physical, even though Sherlock had responded well to the kiss earlier. John wondered if Sherlock would be clinical and cold in the bedroom or if he would allow himself to be taken over by the passion of the bedroom.

On the other hand, John didn’t even know what he would be like, never having slept with a man in his life, not even in the Army. It wasn’t that he’d thought it disgusting or wrong, but he just _hadn’t._ In a way he was glad about that, he would be on more equal footing with Sherlock who was currently sitting on the bed and looking at John expectantly. John hugged his arms around himself, suddenly afraid. “Erm, what do you want to do?”

Sherlock stood quickly and closed the space between them, kissing John. Sherlock pulled away panting, “I want you to, well, erm you know.”

John took in the flushed cheeks, erratic heartbeat, and heaving breathing of Sherlock and didn’t need a Consulting Detective to explain what Sherlock wanted. “We’ll go slowly, yeah?”

  1. Sherlock nodded, grabbing onto John’s arms as John leaned in for another searing kiss. Their tongues tangled together as John cupped Sherlock’s jaw the way he’d thought of doing a thousand times. This whole scene was surreal to him, the fact that he was getting to experience this intimate side of Sherlock was almost enough to make his heart burst. Sherlock wanted this, wanted John and that was the most beautiful thing John could ever think of.   



The pair moved to the bed, still entwined with one another as John began to tug at Sherlock’s clothing. He wanted to see the expanse of chest shown to him so frequently, but until lately, had not been John’s to touch.

John was reaching to undo Sherlock’s trousers when John and Sherlock’s mobiles went off. “Leave it; I’m sure it’s just Mycroft goading us on.”

Right as John was about to reply that it could be urgent; the door to their suite was knocked down.

Mycroft was out of his bedroom in a flash, pistol in hand as John flipped over the bed and grabbed his Browning, pushing Sherlock back down onto the bed. “We’re going to handle this one, stay here.”

Sherlock was about to protest when John leaned down and captured his mouth in a kiss. “I love you and do not want to see you get hurt.”

John rushed out to where Anthea was tying up the intruders, Mycroft sending information through his phone. “KGB, as I thought. Anthea, we need the jet as soon as you can get it.”

“Of course sir,” she replied, standing up and dusting off her A-line skirt. She moved away from the two men now tied down to the chair, picking up her mobile and dialling a number.

Mycroft turned to John. “I do apologise that your holiday was cut short, I do have another job when we get home, Paris this time I believe, if you two are interested. It would make for a good Watson – Holmes holiday don’t you agree?”

John shook his head numbly, still reeling from the fact that Anthea had just immobilized two trained assassins. “I, yeah, Paris sounds nice.”

“Good, now get Sherlock put back together and get ready to leave. We’re heading out in fifteen minutes. FBI will be by to get these two in just a few minutes.”

John nodded, turning to re-enter the bedroom. “Sherlock, we have to go,” John began, stopping at the sight of Sherlock sitting there, half naked and almost debauched. “Your brother said something about a case in Paris he had for us.”

Sherlock sprang from the bed, smiling. “That’s Mycroft’s way of saying he’s sorry, buy giving us an all-expenses paid trip to Paris. On taxpayer money of course.” Sherlock’s mood dampened slightly as he sighed deeply. “Look John, I know this is new and exciting and everything, but I want to make sure this is really what you want. You know how difficult I am.”

It was John’s turn to smile as he took Sherlock’s hand. “There’s no one else out there more perfect for me than you, you know that.”

“And if I grow bored, or we fight more than usual or any of the other possibilities that comes with relationships?”

“Then we work through them, Sherlock. We promise to love one another to the best of our abilities, and if problems arise then we deal with them. I’ve stayed with you this long haven’t I? I’m not just going to leave because you set my favourite jumper on fire.”

“That was an accident,” Sherlock cried, “you left it on the table next to the Bunsen burner!”

“Remind me why you had that in there?”

“Because I was, well never mind. You know why.”

John grinned, “you were trying to make toast, which I thought was adorable by the way and was also why I couldn’t find it in myself to be too terribly angry at you for the entire debacle.”

“If you two are done being mushy, the rest of us have a jet to catch,” Mycroft’s voice at the door made them both jump and turn crimson red in the cheeks.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock sneered, waving his hand. “We’re ready.”

\------------

_Two Weeks Later_

Sherlock and John stared out the window of the jet Mycroft had leant them, allowing them to use it on the condition that no funny business went down in it. John would readily admit that the bedroom’s purity was intact, but the same could not be said for the loo.

John and Sherlock had already hit troughs in their relationship, low areas where it seemed that everything was going wrong, but through John’s patience and Sherlock’s want of trying to change, they made it through.

John had moved his items of necessity to Sherlock’s bedroom on the bottom floor of their flat. Sherlock had graced John with a drawer of his own and John had been so touched by the gesture that he didn’t even argue about it being the bottom one, instead had switched the empty one with Sherlock’s sock drawer which was higher up.

Sherlock stole the covers, John liked to cuddle. They each gave and they each took. It was an even relationship and they were both content with what they had. On top of it all, they still consulted people, but John had made Sherlock’s title real and they now received monetary gain from it, no doubt thanks to the fact that they had stopped the overtaking of the British Government.

John watched as Paris came into view, settling down as the seatbelt sign came on. He threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s who was currently reading _101 Best Places to Kiss in Paris_ , Bach playing through his headphones. All in all, John would say he was the most content he had ever been in his entire life, all because of a flower in Greece.


End file.
